I'm Lost Without My Blogger!
by Immyy
Summary: Sherlock makes John breakfast.


**My first Sherlock fanfic and my first time posting on here! This is posted purely because my friends wanted me to put it up. I honestly have no idea where I'm going with this story!**

The idea of Sherlock Holmes cooking was one that could reduce John Watson, Sherlock's flat mate and "colleague", into fits of laughter. Sherlock, _cooking? _The only time Sherlock even set foot into the kitchen was to check on of his many Petri dishes or to retrieve some kind of body part from the fridge. Yet one morning John, the jumper wearing ex-army doctor, was woken by his flat mate standing in his bedroom doorway holding a small tray of food.

"Sherlock..?" John mumbled, still half asleep.

"Before you say anything, John, there are perfectly simple facts as to why I've done this which, obviously, you've failed to notice," as the handsome, and somewhat lanky, detective said this he crossed the room and stopped beside the smaller man's bed.

"Well, nothing new there then," John sighed as he pulled himself up so he had his back leaning on the headboard of his bed.  
Smirking, Sherlock gently placed the tray onto John's lap then proceeded to sit on the edge of the bed. This was something John had noticed about Sherlock: while he seemed to shun any sort of physical contact from others, he was completely comfortable around John. Every time this thought flickered through his mind, John wished he had the brainpower of Sherlock, so he could somehow deduce something from this. Instead, he always came up blank.

"Aren't you going to eat, then? I thought _you_ were supposed to be force feeding _me_!" Sherlock joked. Suddenly John sensed something was wrong. Not the fact Sherlock had made breakfast (if you count putting some bread in the toaster, heating up some beans and then pouring some orange juice as "making breakfast") even though that was very odd, but something else. Sherlock hardly ever made joked, he wouldn't stop tugging at the bottom of his suit jacket and things were starting to feel extremely awkward.  
John quickly tucked into his beans on toast, after Sherlock said this, silencing the rumbling in his stomach. It then dawned on him that he had no idea when the last time he ate was, or what day it was.

"It's Wednesday,"

"What?" John's head snapped up, his eyes landing straight on Sherlock.

"Today is Wednesday, you last ate on Sunday night and you've not left the house since roughly half six Saturday evening, when you said you were popping down to the shops to buy some milk and afterwards decided to have a nap," Sherlock gave a small smile that was almost sympathetic.

"How did you…?"

"It's obvious John. I'm sure you're wondering why I did this as well," Sherlock gestured to the now empty plate and the glass of orange juice in John's hand. "I noticed you were ill, that Saturday, and once a man has spent three days in bed and has only gotten up to eat once, you get the hint,"

He was right, as usual. John had basically been hiding from Sherlock. He didn't like the idea of the detective thinking of him as weak, he wanted to be strong like him. Sherlock hadn't even seen John the one time the doctor had got out of bed to make some food. John had waited until he'd been busy out on a case.

"And don't pretend you don't already know I've noticed you haven't changed," Sherlock winked while tugging at the sleeve of John's grey T-shirt. What was he doing now…? …Flirting? No. John distinctly remembered him saying he was "married to his work". Besides, it was Sherlock. He'd never like John in that way. If he ever fancied someone, it'd be someone as tall, handsome and clever as him.

John gave a small laugh which seemed to make Sherlock leap off the bed and out the room. Before John had time to call after him he had already returned, this time holding a small pile of neatly folded clothes.

"Mrs. Hudson did some washing," Sherlock smiled somewhat triumphantly, places the clothes at the end of the bed and then sat down again but this time noticeably closer to the smaller man.

"I see you're feeling better, maybe now I can finally get started on this case,"

"What? You've left a case on hold?"

"Four young women all disappeared at exactly the same time on the same night from different streets across London. No obvious answer, as-of-yet,"

"Why have you not gone without me? You're fine on your own!"

"Oh, John," Sherlock signed, placing a hand on each of John's cheeks "I'm lost without my blogger!" He broke into a broad smile, as did John. Then, just as John thought how lovely the colour blue Sherlock's eyes are and that it's not fair his skin is still so perfect so close up, Sherlock's lips brushed lightly against his. It happened so fast the doctor thought he may have imagined it, until Sherlock slowly stood up, pulling away, and John saw that his whole face has gone a light shade of pink.

There were a few seconds of agonizing silence until Sherlock started to pace up and down, with his hands pressed together covering his mouth, as if he was praying. John knew all too well that what he was doing though. He was deducing; turning everything over and over in his mind until the facts somehow fit together.

The detective suddenly stopped still at the end of John's bed, his hands running through his own brown, curly hair before landing on his hips. "Look that, um, thing that, uh, that just happened, um... I think... Well, I don't know... What I mean is,"

"It's fine Sherlock. Honestly, It's... Fine,"

"What?" Sherlock was still, obviously, flustered. No one should ever make him let his emotions get the better of him. Emotions were too messy and made people do stupid things.

"It's okay, you don't need to apologize. Maybe we could do it again sometime," Both men instantly made eye contact after John said this and, no matter how hard they tried, neither of them could suppress their grins and childish giggles.

"Yes, um, good... Good!" Sherlock laughed, his smile getting wider with each word.


End file.
